“And why is this shown to me?” he asked, a little vexed, as was seen in his manner. “I have told you it is felony to assist a prisoner in an attempt to escape.” “I have shown it to you, because I have not the remotest intention, Mr. Dunscomb, to attempt anything of the sort. I shall not quit my asylum so easily.” “Then why are you here, at this hour, with the certainty that most of the night must be passed on the road, if you mean to return to your prison ere the sun reappears?” “For air, exercise, and to show you this letter. I am often in town, but am compelled, for more reasons than you are acquainted with, to travel by night.” “May I ask where you obtain a vehicle to make these journies in?” “I use my own carriage, and trust to a very long-tried and most faithful domestic. I think Miss Updyke will say he drove us not only carefully, but with great speed. On that score, we have no grounds of complaint. But I am very much fatigued, and must ask permission to sleep for an hour. You have a drawing-room, I take it for granted, Mr. Dunscomb?” “My niece fancies she has two. Shall I put lights in one of them?” “By no means. Anna knows the house as well as she does her mother’s, and will do the honours. On no account let Miss Wilmeter be disturbed. I am a little afraid of meeting _her_, since we have practised a piece of treachery touching Marie Moulin. But, no matter; one hour on a sofa, in a dark room, is all I ask. That will bring us to midnight, when the carriage will again be at the door. You wish to see your mother, my dear, and here is a safe and very suitable attendant to accompany you to her house and back again.” All this was said pleasantly, but with a singular air of authority, as if this mysterious being were accustomed to plan out and direct the movements of others. She had her way. In a minute or two she was stretched on a sofa, covered with a shawl, the door was closed on her, and Dunscomb was on his way to Mrs. McBrain’s residence, which was at some distance from his own, with Anna leaning on his arm. “Of course, my dear,” said the lawyer, as he and his beautiful companion left his own door at that late hour of the night, “we shall see no more of Mary Monson?” “Not see her again! I should be very, very sorry to think that, sir!” “She is no simpleton, and means to take Timms’s advice. That fellow has written a strong letter, in no expectation of its being seen, I fancy, in which he points out a new source of danger; and plainly advises his client to abscond. I can see the infatuation of love in this; for the letter, if produced, would bring him into great trouble.” “And you suppose, sir, that Mary Monson intends to follow this advice?”